


Familiar

by Tobi_Misfit



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Homeless John, John has a hard life man, M/M, Teen John, This is gonna get weird, Totally normal, but for now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-04 04:08:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4125046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tobi_Misfit/pseuds/Tobi_Misfit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson got kicked out of military training camp, got kicked out of home, and is living on the streets of London. Between learning how to get by in such a life and the mysterious murders that are plaguing the homeless community around him, it takes a while for him to notice the stranger who's started paying more attention to him than he should. Until John is abducted by a man who keeps him blindfolded throughout their interactions, then returns him to the street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No Place like London

The bouncer was burly, and he tossed John’s scraggly teenaged body through the door of the bar with no effort at all. When he let go of John’s collar, the boy let himself fall to the pavement. Not because he couldn’t catch himself. Simply because he couldn’t think of any reason to hold himself up any longer. Tossed out of a bar for getting too drunk and getting in a fight with the bartender when he couldn’t pay. Tossed out of home for being tossed out of boot camp. He was a failure, with nothing but a knapsack of threadbare clothes, an addiction to anything that would take his mind off of reality and a fake ID. His right wrist (broken, or at least fractured – he could feel the pieces of bone grinding against each other through the haze of pain his intoxicated state could only partially numb) crumpled under him and he rolled until he was on his back, gazing up at the smog choked sky.  
“There’s no place like London,” he whispered to himself. He didn’t even recognise his own voice anymore. If he was going to die, at least he would die here. “Wouldn’t mind a star or two, though.”  
And that was all he managed to add before he blacked out.

 

* * *

 

 _This is the only place I’ve ever felt like I belong,_ John wrote. The thick leather bound journal he’d carried with him most of his life was the one personal item he’d brought with him to boot camp. _My heart pines for London still, but at least out here I have a purpose. An inkling of the man I want to be, and an idea of the path I need to take to get there. The sky is clear and bright with stars, and that helps me to forget about London for a while. They work us hard, and I never knew how loud or long a man could scream until I came here. As cliché as it may sound, I have learnt so many things. How to hide amongst whatever is around me. How to use my voice to get others to do as I wish. How to kill a man with just my own body. Exactly how much of a drug or drink it takes to numb pain. To drown out the screams. To forget. To sleep. To never wake up. That’s not part of the curriculum, but we learn it here none the less._

* * *

John heard the thin, pained groan that slipped from his lips before he was properly aware he was awake. The pounding in his head was par for the course now, merely a background drum beat in the inevitable parade of aches and disappointment being conscious and sober meant for him. His entire right arm was on fire, every breath pulled at his bruised ribs and his back was arched at an uncomfortable angle where he’d passed out on top of his bag. The cold had crept so deeply into his feet that he couldn’t feel his toes at all, and beyond his knees were simply dully buzzing stumps. John blearily opened one eye and was greeted by the view of a woman pulling her pointing child away from him.  
“Mummy, why is that man lying on the ground?” he heard the kid ask.  
“Don’t point,” scolded the mother, and they were gone, past him and away down the street. John sighed, bringing his left hand up to rub at his face. The bags under his eyes were so prominent he could feel them, and stubble scratched at his palm.  
“What the fuck happened to me,” he mumbled self piteously before heaving himself into a more upright position. Pain flared through his chest, but the worst was his wrist. Resting it gingerly in his lap, John squinted at the offending limb. “Shit,” he grumbled, using his free hand to rest the broken one against his chest. Slowly, keeping the reflexive cringe from his face, John got to his feet and shuffled around to the back of the bar he’d been tossed out of the night before. He used the tap that ran out into the gutter to wash his face and ran his fingers through his hair. It wasn’t much, but it was the best he could do. He knew of a clinic not far from where he was, and he made his way to it. He kept away from the main thoroughfares as much as he could, already sick of the stares and sneers he was getting for his ragged appearance. John was doing his utmost not to pay attention to anything around him that wasn’t leading him to his destination, but certain things never failed to catch his attention. And one such thing was the coppery note of blood rising amongst the smell of garbage from a narrow alleyway between two buildings.  
_Stay out of it._  
But of course he couldn’t. John turned down the alley.  
_Your dominant arm is broken, Watson. You’ll be no good to anyone._  
“Hello?” he called out, squinting against the dim shadows thrown by the building blocking the sun from the bins on either side of him. They stank to heaven, but he’d always had a nose for blood. There was a figure crouched up ahead, and at the sound of his call they stood. They seemed impossibly tall, body framed by a flowing coat that flicked out dramatically as they turned on their heel and strode quickly toward the other end of the alleyway. John frowned.  
_It’s not exactly a surprise that people in this city are weird. Now go get your arm seen to._  
And he would have gone, had he not seen movement from the spot the retreating figure had been crouching.  
_A rat._  
Or a stray dog or something.  
Leave it, John.  
He didn’t. “Hello?” No response, but John carried on down the alleyway none the less. His eyes finally adjusted to the shadowy surroundings and he spotted a man slumped on the cobbles.  
_Drunk. Or stoned. Leave him be. He won’t thank you for bothering him._  
“Sir? Are you all right?” John asked, reaching the man and crouching before him. He couldn’t derive any movement amongst the shadows. “Sir?” he repeated. When there was still nothing, instinct to take the guy’s pulse had him reaching out with his right arm, yelping at the sudden sharp, hot pain that ran through it, and pulling it back to his chest again. Taking a slow breath he reached out again – this time with his left – and sought out the man’s throat. The thick, sticky substance his fingers encountered there explained the blood smell, and the total lack of movement at his pulse point explained the lack of response. “Shit,” John muttered, wiping his hand on the man’s jacket. “Sorry mate, I haven’t got a phone. And I think you’re past helping anyway.”  
John stood, squinting at his fingers in the dark. He was reasonably sure he’d got all the blood off them. He walked back down the alley the way he’d come and returned on his path to the clinic. He didn’t notice the tall figure in the long coat watching him leave.

* * *

Once he’d managed to talk someone with a cell phone into calling in the guy in the alley, John situated himself in front of the reception desk.  
“Look, I can’t afford an x-ray but my arm is broken. How much is it going to cost me to get it set?” he asked the falsely smiling woman behind the desk.  
“We can’t set –“ she began. John cut in.  
“Without an x-ray, yeah yeah I know. But I _know_ it’s broken. So how much?”  
“Sir, I don’t think you understand. Our doctors-”  
John gave a heavy sigh. “Right. Never mind then.”  
“Sir-” The receptionist attempted again, but John was already letting himself out. Fishing his wallet out of his pocket John sat down on the steps to the pharmacy. Leafing through it, John gave a growl that made someone passing him flinch.  
“Bastard pick pocketed me,” he sneered at his empty wallet. So that was it for that plan. He’d either have to make himself bandages from his clothing – of which he had very little – or steal some. He didn’t like the idea of either, frankly, but he was having to do a lot of things lately that he didn’t like the idea of. He knew he would have to adapt to this life at some point.  
_You need a drink.  
_ “That’s on the list. Right after I fix this hand.”

* * *

_Jones and I snuck out last night to meet up with some of his old friends. They gave me this pill that made me feel more alive than I’ve ever felt before. Even more than when I take another life. I thought it was impossible._

_I never want to leave this place. I’m safe here. Everyone else is safer with me here._


	2. Survival

The pharmacy hadn’t had any cameras in the aisle with the bandages, so John had managed to slip a few into his jacket pockets. He’d taken a bottle of low grade painkillers, too, since the hard stuff was behind the counter. He’d had to leave then, before the pharmacist had become too curious about the ragged man shuffling around the shelves. She’d asked about his arm, cradled gingerly in a makeshift sling he’d made out of a t-shirt and tucked inside his jacket. He’d told her it was just a sprain. Now, sitting on the pavement with his back to a wall, wincing as he did his best to bind a broken arm so it would heal straight, John wished it was just a sprain. Every tiny jolt sent white hot pain bursting through the limb. Cursing through gritted teeth, the tied the bandage off as best he could and leant his head back against the wall.   
_That isn’t going to work. It needs to be set properly to heal right._  
John ignored that, using his teeth to tear open the packaging on the cloth sling he’d pinched. The knot was untidy and crooked, but when he slotted his arm into it it held, and that was the important thing. Well, the second most important thing. On his way here he’d spotted a homeless man curled around a pile of belongings, asleep. And amongst that pile had been a half bottle of cheap white spirits. John had taken it as quietly as he could, hurrying away when the guy stirred. He used a heavy gulp of it to wash down a few of the painkillers - instinct told him to ration them, otherwise he’d have taken a handful.   
_Maybe this isn’t going to be so bad after all_ , John told himself, attempting to be optimistic. _I can get by. I can get what I need. It might be fine._   
He ignored the vindictive laughter that came in response. Wrapping his jacket more tightly around himself - it didn’t quite close with both his rucksack and his slung arm inside it, but it got close - John closed his eyes and settled back against the wall. Perhaps if he could nod back off to sleep for an hour or two he’d be able to bypass the pangs of hunger in his empty stomach.   
Plenty of people walked by him as John drifted between full sleep and full consciousness, but no one stopped. At least, not until some fifteen minutes or so later. John wasn’t paying any real attention to the soft, even footfalls that were approaching until they paused right in front of him. Reluctant to give up his fragile grasp on the peace of sleep, John ignored whoever it was. He had better things to do than be gawked at by people who had their lives together. When there were no footsteps moving away after some time, however, John scowled grumpily and gave in.   
”What do you want?” he growled, not opening his eyes. There was no response, but now that he was a little more aware John was sure he could still feel another person standing there. “Piss off, would you? I’m trying to sleep.” When his unwelcome guest continued not to respond, John dragged open his heavy eyelids and squinted at the man in front of him. He was tall, towering over John where he was huddled on the ground, and rail thin. He wore a long coat that only accentuated both of these attributes.   
”What, don’t you talk?” John grouched, taking in the thick mop of curls atop the man’s head. His face was somehow regal, his eyes alien and his cheekbones high and sharp. “Or are you just deaf? I said piss off.”  
”You’ve got terrible manners for an army man,” the stranger replied. His voice was cold and superior. Exactly what John would have expected him to sound like.   
”I’m not an army man,” John replied bitterly.   
_You could have been. If you’d tried for once in your miserable life._   
”Now fuck off and leave me alone.” He closed his eyes again, set on ignoring this asshole. He was probably only there to rub his situation in his face anyway, and that was the last thing John needed.   
”You look cold,” the stranger continued, paying no heed to John’s dismissal. John set his jaw, turning a hostile glare on the other man.   
”Of course I’m fucking cold. We’re in fucking _London_ , I’m sitting on my arse on concrete and I can’t do up my fucking jacket because some _utter cock_ broke my _fucking arm_. You look peachy fucking keen in your big flash coat, so would you kindly _fuck off_ and leave me to be cold on my own!”   
The stranger raised an eyebrow at him. John shut his eyes once more, turning his head away. The man stood there for a few more minutes, then finally walked away without saying anything else. _Fucking weirdo_ , John thought, tucking his legs in closer to himself.

***

The lightbulb had exploded, raining shards of glass down on the two boys squabbling in the now pitch black room. John felt several hit him, over his bare arms and chest, and a few on his face. A few had landed on his opponent as well, because when threw his next punch in the vague direction of where the other boy’s chest had been, a shard of glass ripped his knuckle open on contact. A soft ‘oof’ issued from his mouth, and John brought his guard back up to his head, defending agianst the next blow even though he would not be able to see it. It turned out to be a kick to his knee and John went down with a grunt, hands coming out to catch himself and grabbing hold of the other boy’s hips. John’s adversary grabbed both of his wrists and hauled him back to his feet, swapping his grip quickly. Both hands found the sides of his face and John tensed, preparing himself for a liverpool kiss. He drew his arm back, planning uppercut the guy in the stomach before he had a chance to bring his forehead down against John’s nose. But instead John was momentarily surprised by another mouth finding his own. There was a sliver of glass scraping at his lips but it very abruptly didn’t matter. None of it mattered because the adrenaline was flooding through his veins and the smell of blood was thick in the air and the boys hands were holding him in as John was kissed with a kind of frantic desperation that made his heart pound all the faster and his breath disappear from his lungs. Instead of punching the kid John gave in to it, finding his hips again and dragging him closer as he returned the kiss. Pinpoints of pain burst across his stomach and chest as the fragments of glass that littered their bodies collided, ground between them as they pressed themselves together. John could barely breathe and blood was rushing in his ears and he had never kissed a boy before, never even thought about it, but it was hard and hot and it hurt in the most exquisite kind of way. One of the other boy’s hands pushed up into John’s short hair and held on. John swore he’d never been wanted in quite this same way before, and he couldn’t help but let it swallow him whole.

***

  
_How curious_ , he thought, taking another long pull on his cigarette. He was sat at a small table on an upstairs balcony of a cafe across the road from where the homeless boy with the broken arm was dozing. _How curious that one so young should have so much pain in his eyes. So much anger and so much energy. How could one with so much determination have failed so many times?_ He flicked ash from his cigarette into the ashtray on the table he was sitting at. When he had requested it, the waitress had actually had the nerve to tell him he ought to quit smoking before it killed him. He would remember her face. She would learn. _The young are so foolish now. They have been told they have so much time. They were lied to. A century is barely an instant on the face of history. They are naive to think that they will be remembered._ He held his cigarette between two long fingers and watched the smoke curl from its end and disperse in the air. His thoughts kept returning to the boy. He was malnourished. That would not do. The man clicked his fingers sharply and the waitress he had dealt with earlier came over, trying to hide her frown at being summoned in such a way.   
”Take that boy down there a sandwich or something. Make it decent,” he demanded.

 


End file.
